


Alpha, Omega

by x_art



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it’s possible to be just happy. Sometimes there’s nothing more needed than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alpha, Omega

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wyomingnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyomingnot/gifts).



“…and it’s not like I didn’t warn you. I said they were coming from both directions. I said they were armed—”

_“To the teeth,’_ ” he interrupted. “I remember, Finch.” The warehouse was like an echo chamber and the gunfire had seemed more like canon fire—his ears were still ringing as he looked down from his perch. The players below still hadn’t noticed him, but at least they were done shooting each other. “I didn’t have a lot of choices.”

“Something I’ve heard time and again. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

“Then we’re on the same page.”

Finch sighed. “Mr. Reese. You know how much I hate that expression.”

John grinned. “I do. And…” He peered around the catwalk’s brace. Lazlo had risen from his place behind an overturned table and was brushing dust off his jacket. “Oh, Lazlo,” he murmured absently, “you’re out of jail for five minutes and look what you do.”

“Is Caffarelli dead?”

“Yes, and so are all his men.” Lazlo walked up to one of the bodies and kicked it, then spat on it. John shook his head—DNA evidence being what it was, that was a stupid move. But, knowing the Yugorov family, maybe it was a calling card—they were arrogant like that. “So much for forging new ties. It seems the Russian mafia are back in business.”

“Something we already knew. Can you get out of there?”

“Not now. I’ll have to wait until they’re gone and then call Carter.”

“After which, you'll come back here. While you’ve been indulging your curiosity and trying to prove your point, I’ve been working.”

Curiosity, yes, but not just because of the Yugorovs. He was curious why Fusco was still acting so weird. Maybe he was back with HR? Maybe he’d thrown in with the Russian Mob 2.0? “My point was proved ten minutes ago when Lazlo opened fire on his new associates. Some things just are.” When Finch didn’t say anything, he added, “We have a new number, don’t we?”

“Yes, and it’s someone we know.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Thomas.”

He glanced out of the filthy clerestory windows at the afternoon sun, then settled back against the catwalk door, gun ready in case one of Lazlo's men grew a brain. “Give me an hour.”

***

It was actually ninety-five minutes by the time he got to the library.

Bear heard him first; he barked, then jumped off his bed and ran toward John down the long hall, nails clattering on the floor.

“Hey, Bear, how’re you doing?” he murmured as Bear tried to lick his face. “Have you been out today?”

“He has. Several times, in fact.”

He looked up. Finch was standing in the doorway, holding a cup of tea and a towel. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, vest or tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, pushed to the elbow. The front of his shirt was wet. John smiled. “Bath time?”

“No, just not paying attention. And if you’re going to be late again…” Finch turned and headed toward the makeshift kitchen. “Can you please call and let me know? If it’s not too much trouble?”

John followed. Finch’s white teapot was in the sink; water pooled on the narrow countertop and was dripping over the edge. Bear trotted over and began lapping up the water on the floor.

Finch looked down and sighed. “Bear, please. That’s dirty.”

John leaned against the doorjamb. “He’ll survive. What’s wrong?”

“I want to make sure I get as much work done as possible.”

He took a breath to ask why the rush, then remembered. “Is it the second Tuesday already?”

Finch finished mopping up the water and threw the towel in the sink. “It is.”

John watched him for a moment. “Harold, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

“Yes?”

“Is it safe, visiting Elias every month?”

Finch turned stiffly around. “I hardly think he’ll try to assassinate me while I’m on state property. Even he isn’t so bold." He got out a clean towel from the drawer. "Or so stupid.”

“No, I meant the video they record of you every time. Is that safe?”

Finch pursed his lips. “You surely don’t imagine I didn’t think of that? No…” He dried his hands and hung the towel up. “I hack in after every visit and delete the footage. Someone might figure it out, eventually, but it’s doubtful. The prison security system is less than stellar, never mind that the guards are all in Elias’s pocket.”

“Hm.”

Finch unrolled a sleeve, smoothed it down, and buttoned the cuff. “Can we get to work?” He rolled down the other sleeve and began walking toward John, head down.

John reached out and planted his palm on the doorjamb, stopping Finch in his tracks. “I was thinking we could go out for an early dinner; we have time. Maybe Chinese?” He couldn’t feel the warmth from Finch’s body but he imagined he could, imagined it adding to his own, creeping up his arm to his chest.

Finch hesitated. He glanced to the side, a slow motion of consideration. And then he shook his head slightly and said, “No. We have work to do. If you’re hungry, order something in.”

Finch pressed against his arm and he let it drop.

“I’ll be at the computer.” Finch walked away, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t be long.”

John sighed and looked at Bear. Bear looked up at him, head cocked as if to say, _‘Well, you tried.’_

John nodded. “Yeah, I tried.”

***

He scanned the entrance to the clinic. The right-side window was boarded up from the attack the day before; spray painted on the plywood surface in bright red paint was a convoluted gang symbol. It was shorthand, telling Thomas that his days were numbered. John shook his head and tapped the earwig. “I’m at the vet's. How are you?”

“I’m being shown to my usual room,” Finch muttered.

“Say hi to Elias for me.”

Instead of saying, _‘You know I won’t’_ or something to that effect, Finch said tightly, “Shouldn’t you be working on the number?”

“I am. I’m casing the joint.”

“How’s Bear?”

John looked down. Bear was sitting on his haunches, focused entirely on the front door. He wasn't nervous, but he wasn't happy either—he knew why they were there, even though he’d only been twice. “He’ll relax when he realizes that we’re not here for him.”

“Buy some of those venison snacks he likes. As a treat.”

“You spoil him, Finch.”

“I suppose I do.”

The admission made him smile and he said quietly, “I’ve got to go. Take care.”

“You, too.”

He tapped his earwig, then patted Bear’s head. “Okay, we’re going in. Look sharp.”

Bear got to his feet and didn’t bark.

***

The vet’s waiting room was empty except for a woman with a small cage and the girl behind the reception desk. Probably a cat, and yes, as John made his way to the desk, he heard a soft hiss from the container. Bear’s ears went up and he looked over his shoulder.

“No,” John said, “that isn’t for you.” He smiled at the receptionist. “I’d like to get my dog checked for thyroid disease. I don’t have an appointment.” He caught the scent of burned fabric and looked around. The firebomb must have hit a chair—the frame was still in the corner but the cushions were gone. "Everything okay?" he asked mildly.

"Oh, that was nothing," the receptionist said with a frown. "The police are handling it."

_'Not by the looks of it,'_ he wanted to say but the cat his hissed again and this time Bear whined.

The receptionist gave John a clipboard with an admission sheet, then peered over the desk and smiled at Bear. “Does he have any feline brothers or sisters?”

It took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about and he had to stop himself from smirking. “No. He’s an only child.”

“That’s too bad.”

He paused, thinking about what would happen if he brought a kitten home to Finch. It would be funny, seeing Finch's expression, but cruel to the cat—Finch would say something like, _'We're not running a zoo, Mr. Reese. The cat goes.'_ He sighed and began to fill out the information Finch had given him. _Pet’s Name: Bear. Owner: Harold Wren… “_ Will Dr. Thomas be seeing Bear? He’s most comfortable with him.”

The receptionist shook her head with superficial sorrow. “No, I’m sorry. Dr. Thomas is out sick today. Dr. Phillips is taking his patients.”

Damn. He thought he’d be in time to catch Thomas but the gang graffiti had done its work. The doctor was probably hiding out at home and without Finch to run interference…

He handed the clipboard back to the receptionist and said regretfully, “I’ll wait. It’s not that important. Bear, come.”

He tugged on Bear’s leash and they left, the receptionist watching them, mouth open with surprise, clipboard still held high.

***

“Do you think that’s them?” he murmured to Bear as a van rumbled slowly toward them. It jerked to a stop in the middle of the block, then pulled to the curb. It was old and had a big, badly painted sign on the side— _Pete’s Speedy Septic, Your 1-Stop Shop For All Your Plumbing Needs._

John had used the repairman ruse many times and this could be the same, a ploy to gain access to Thomas’s house. But, then again—he squinted and watched the man climb out of the van—maybe not. Hitmen were generally young and generally liked to stay in shape. This guy was maybe sixty and pushing two hundred and fifty pounds.

Still, it never paid to underestimate, so he watched and waited. After Pete dropped his tools twice and his clipboard once, John sighed and shook his head.

“Do you want to go check out the house again?” Bear just looked at him and he nodded. “Yeah, me neither.”

He reached out and scratched under Bear’s collar absently. He could do another circuit of the house, but he’d broken in already and he’d be taking a chance a neighbor might see, now that it was close to five and the workday was ending. Of course, Thomas could have returned via the alley, but he would've had to bypass the motion-activated security camera John had installed on the back stoop and there'd been no signal from the receiver…

Restlessly, he tapped the earwig. “Finch?” There was no reply. Which could mean several things, all innocent; there was no reason to assume that Elias had gotten one up on Finch. Finch was resourceful and he was in a safe place.

Still, it was weird, not having Finch in relative close contact, and his restlessness grew. He was tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, wondering about bringing Carter in and how much grief she would give him, when, finally, a car pulled up in front of Thomas’s brownstone.

“That’s more like it,” he whispered to Bear. Because it wasn’t a piece of crap van but a sleek, late-model Lincoln. And it wasn’t an out-of-shape geriatric who climbed out of the car, it was a young man, followed by another. They were both African-American, both wearing nice suits. “Bear, you’re staying here while I try to convince these gentlemen that it's in their best interests to leave your doctor alone.”

***

It wasn’t a particularly dangerous or difficult offensive. He simply snuck up behind the men as they broke into the brownstone and shoved them inside.

They were skilled but not skilled enough, and by the time he was finished, one man was down, grasping his knee in pain, and the other was unconscious, draped over the balustrade, held in place by the newel post.

John straightened his cuffs, then went outside. There was no one around—even Pete's van was gone. He went back inside, glanced regretfully at the doctor's ruined foyer, then carried the men out one at a time and deposited them in the trunk of their car.

He drove them to Carter’s precinct, making sure to hit every pothole, every bump. He parked around the corner and let Bear out, then opened the trunk. They were awake and squinting up at him.

“Now,” John said sympathetically. “I know you both need a doctor and I’ll get you one soon, but I want you to understand something.”

The man on the right made a feeble gesture as if he were cocking a gun and John nodded.

“Yes, I know you’re angry, but I’m angry, too. You see, I’ve got a friend and this friend really, _really_ likes Dr. Thomas. He’s very upset at the idea that he might have to find a new vet, so you two are going to leave the doctor alone. Tell your friends—no more threats, no more Molotov cocktails.”

He leaned over and dropped his voice to a whisper. “And that dogfight ring you’re running? That’s come to an end, too. The police have the location and are going to rescue the dogs. When you get out of jail in twenty-five years, you’ll need to find another line of work. Understand?”

He waited for more threats but they were out of juice. He closed the trunk and got out his phone.

She answered on the third ring, a distracted, “Carter.”

“Hello, detective.”

She sighed. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“It’s always nice to be wanted.”

“ _Want_ isn’t the word I’d use. You left quite a mess for me yesterday.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said with serene affront. “I was just an innocent bystander.” He glanced down at Bear and winked; Bear wriggled and whined.

“You? Innocent?” She snorted gently. “Speaking of, I got a text from your friend this morning. Something about an illegal dogfighting group?”

“And a veterinarian who had discovered the ring and was being threatened by the men in charge.”

“Do you know where I can find them? The men in charge?”

He grinned. “As it happens, they’re nearby, safe and warm in the trunk of their car.”

“And the veterinarian?”

“Yeah, about that.”

She sighed again. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. Probably on the run. I’m going to text you the information that Finch dug up; maybe you can convince him that it’s okay to come out of hiding?”

“John,” she whispered.

“And,” he added before she really got a steam up, “maybe you can send a unit to secure his house? The locks, unfortunately, are broken.”

He waited for a third sigh but she just gave him a grudging, “I suppose I should say thank you.”

“I suppose you should.” There was a long pause and he grinned again. “But I won’t hold you to it.” He started to hang up, then remembered. “Carter? The crooks are going to need medical care.”

“Of course they will,” Carter intoned.

She hung up and he sent her the intel Finch had given him, brief as it was. He pocketed the phone and smiled down at Bear. “Are you hungry?”

Bear barked.

“Then let’s go find Harold.”

***

As it turned out, it was a task easier said than done.

They went to the library first, then the apartments on 31st and 35th. All were a wash, all were Finch-less. There was no reason at all to get anxious, no reason for the panic that seemed to spring out of nowhere.

Except…

Except for the fact that Finch had spent the afternoon with a man who was capable of killing him without blinking. And who would think nothing of eating a nice meal after doing so.

He tapped the earwig and said, as he had a dozen times already, “Finch? Where are you?”

This time the call was answered. “I’m here, Mr. Reese.”

He sighed. “Harold.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The game lasted longer than expected and…”

Finch trailed off. “And?”

“And, I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

“Where are you?”

“Where do you think?”

“You’re not at the library or your apartment.” He didn’t mention the place on 35th—he wasn’t supposed to know about that one.

“I’m at the restaurant. Waiting for you so I can order dinner.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

"Very good."

***

When he got to the restaurant, Finch was in his favorite place by the window, watching as the waiter poured him a glass of wine.

John nodded to the waiter, then sat down. “Your second?”

“Third, actually.”

That wasn’t good. Finch liked his wine, but he rarely drank to excess, and three was excessive for him. John just signaled to Bear and murmured, “Under the table, please.” Bear obliged, curling under the table, over his feet.

Finch watched with a blank expression. “You really shouldn’t have brought him in here. The other patrons are staring.”

It was an odd statement, without heat, and John would have answered but the waiter was still standing by, trying to make it seem as if he weren’t listening. He nodded to his glass, then waited until they were alone so he could ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Finch.”

Finch answered by unfolding his napkin and spreading it over his lap, effectively quashing John's questions. “Nothing’s wrong. I ordered pasta and red sauce for you. I hope you’re hungry.”

***

If beating up two thugs hadn’t been hard work, this was—making conversation with Finch as they ate, trying to hear what Finch wasn’t saying.

Because Finch wasn’t exactly mum, but he was quiet, focusing on his meal, speaking first of Thomas, and then nothing much, as if his mind were on some complex computer algorithm.

Halfway through his pasta, John had enough. He wiped his mouth on his napkin, then tossed it down. He leaned on the table, elbows on either side of his plate and murmured, “Harold?”

Finch looked up. Then down at John’s elbows reprovingly.

“Yes, I’m breaking an etiquette rule. What’s up with you?”

This time, instead of brushing him off, Finch finally met his gaze. “Let’s go for a walk.”

John sat there a moment. He had a couple dozen ways he could make someone talk, most of them very unpleasant. But he was no longer that man and this was Finch, after all…

He looked around, raised his finger and caught the waiter’s eye. “You better wear your overcoat—it’s cold outside.”

***

Finch led them, not to the library, but to the dog park.

By the time they reached 29th, Bear had realized where they were going and he was almost pulling on the leash, ears up, looking at John every so often.

When they got to the park, John waited until they were on the grass before bending and unhooking Bear’s lead. Still, Bear didn’t move and John rubbed his head and ears. “Good boy; you can go.”

Bear took off like a shot with a happy bark, dashing here and there, stopping every once in a while to sniff the ground.

“I envy him sometimes,” Finch murmured.

“Why?”

Finch nodded stiffly in Bear’s direction where he was running flat out, as if chasing some invisible prey. “Look at him. So effortless.”

John swallowed and nodded. He forgot, at times, about Finch’s injuries. He was so used to them, so used to making allowances when Finch needed them. Or _not,_ as the case may be, because Finch excelled at standing on his own two feet. “Harold, what’s wrong?”

Finch took a breath and John prepared for more evasions, but what he got was, “He said I must be happy.”

He turned. Finch was huddled in his overcoat, hands in his pockets. “Who said you must be happy?”

Finch glanced his way. “Elias. We’d just made our first moves—he was using the Pirc Defense, an unwise choice in the long run—and he said I looked different. And then he smiled and said I must be happy.”

“Hm.”

“Is that your way of saying you were right, that relative emotions are an impossibility?”

John shrugged. “I only said that sometimes things just _are_. You were the one who said everything is relative.”

Finch tipped his head and it was a long moment before he said, “Do you remember last December when you told me you were happy?”

He wanted to say, _‘You mean before our carefully constructed world came apart at the seams?’_ but settled for, “I do.”

“What I remember is thinking that it was such a facile, simplistic thing to say. That as flattering as it was, one couldn’t possibly be just _happy.”_

Two days ago, when they’d gotten into a discussion-slash-argument about emotions and relative states of being, he’d wondered why Finch had been so insistent that all emotions were transitive, solely dependent on one’s state of mind at the time. He'd chalked it up to Finch's covert patchwork past—Grace, Ingram and the nephew—even though it had seemed there had to be more to it than that…

Leave it to Finch to sit on a thought and worry it to death. “And now?”

Finch stepped closer until they were side-by-side, sleeves pressed together. “And now, let’s go back to my place.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Harold, you do pick your times, don’t you?” 

Finch rolled his eyes. And then called out, “Bear! Let’s go home!”

***

It was late, almost midnight and he was fighting sleep because he couldn’t stay, when Finch sighed heavily.

He rolled to his side, making the sheets and comforter rustle. He’d thought Finch was asleep, but he was wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling.

Before he could say anything, Finch glanced to the side.

The curtains were drawn and the pale moonlight washed in, sending waves of light over the bed, over Finch's face. His skin and eyes were colorless in the half-light, giving him an odd, otherworldly look.

“You were right, you know,” Finch whispered. “Emotions aren’t by necessity, relative.”

John waited.

“And sometimes people are who they are.”

“Like Lazlo and Peytr Yugorov?”

“Yes. Not bad code, not _good_ code, not code at all. Just _people_.”

“And?”

“And sometimes it’s possible to be just happy. Sometimes there’s nothing more needed than that.”

John tucked his hands under the pillow and smiled. “Alpha and omega?”

“The beginning and end with nothing in between, yes.”

They stared at each other for a moment that seemed longer than it was, and then Finch cleared his throat and turned back to the ceiling. “Why don’t you stay. We can have breakfast at that place you like, the one with those disgustingly bad paintings.”

John raised an eyebrow, more than a little surprised. He could count on one hand—with two fingers—the times he’d stayed in Finch's bed longer than five hours. He’d known it would take some doing, chipping away at the wall of Finch’s isolation, but sometimes it had felt as if he weren't making any headway at all. 

It looked like his patience was paying off. 

He said, carefully hiding any hint of victory from his voice, “Black velvet art is making a comeback, Finch. You should snatch them up before some other billionaire sees them.”

Finch winced with mock pain. “God forbid. Besides,” he added, as if John hadn’t interrupted his train of thought, “Bear will like having you here. You can take him for a walk first thing.”

John craned his neck to the far side of the bed where Bear was sleeping, spread out over the fancy cushion Finch had bought. “So I’m just your dog walker, now?”

It was said absently, meant as a joke, but Finch’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, just a dog walker.” Awkwardly, he turned and reached out to place his hand flat on John’s chest. “And confidant and conspirator, but most of all, friend. Who makes me happy.”

There were a lot of things he could say in response, but Finch had surprised all over again. So he just covered Finch's hand with his and murmured, “Disgustingly bad paintings it is. I'll even pick up the check.”

Finch smiled and then closed his eyes. "Of course you will, Mr. Reese. I'm counting on it."

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to J for the spur-of-the-moment beta:)


End file.
